


By a Thread

by Pandir



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dissociation, Drugged Make Outs, F/M, Lalo's a flirt, M/M, Meth addicts aren't exactly full of good advice, Meth-induced Paranoia, Nacho is FINE (tm), Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:07:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23382070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandir/pseuds/Pandir
Summary: "You need to learn how to indulge, Nachito."And Nacho wishes he could do that, just for a moment, just for one second, to not give a shit and give in.
Relationships: Eduardo "Lalo" Salamanca/Ignacio "Nacho" Varga, Ignacio "Nacho" Varga / Jo / Amber
Comments: 8
Kudos: 44





	By a Thread

**Author's Note:**

> [♪♪♪](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7R6SITSeiRo)

"He’s telling the truth."

Nacho turns away from the miserable dealer on the chair before him, coughing and wheezing from what sounds like a punctured lung, to Lalo with an insistent look. 

“That’s all he knows.” 

There's a rare displeased tug at the corners of Lalo's mouth. Some of their stuff has gone missing and showed up in this poor bastard's hands, and of course, Lalo put Nacho in charge of the interrogations. As it turns out, the guy has not much to say about who sold their meth to his crew, which is unfortunate, but mostly for him. Then again, Nacho doubts that there would have been anything he could have said to save himself. In many ways, Salamancas are all alike. 

"Okay", Lalo says as he steps closer, holding out his hand for Nacho to hand him the knife, “then we’re done."

Nacho doesn't look away. Arms crossed, he watches Lalo grab the man's hair, pull his head back and slit his throat with one smooth motion. Blood wells up as the man sputters in Lalo's grip, and Lalo holds him in place until his gargling subsides and he stops struggling. The man collapses on the floor, and Lalo steps over his twitching body, blood on his hands and shirt. 

“Want me to fetch the gasoline?”, Nacho asks, his voice even, but his fingers absent-mindedly tugging at his ear ring. Torturing people for the Salamancas has a way of making him restless.

"What do you say, Ignacio?", Lalo starts apropos of nothing on the way to his car, wiping his bloodied hands with a handkerchief. Smoke is curling out of the broken windows of the decrepit abandoned building behind them, and Lalo’s mood is improving by the second. "Dinner?" 

“Sure.” Nacho nods, leaning on the open car door with one arm while he waits for Lalo to clean up and get into the driver’s seat. There’s still a dull ache in his knuckles, and Nacho carefully stretches his fingers and curls them into a fist. It stings only a little. 

Just before he gets in, Lalo shoots him his most charming smile over the roof of the car. 

"You earned it."

Maybe he should be grateful that Lalo is keeping him fed like that. At home, Nacho hardly ever bothers with a proper meal.

"Ignacio, you have to chew, to savor", Lalo reprimands him, "taste the spices!" 

Truth to be told, Nacho has hardly paid attention to what his hands and mouth have been doing. 

"You need to learn how to indulge, man." There’s a mischievous glint in Lalo's eyes as he wets his lips.

Nacho takes another bite and chews, slowly and deliberately. Lalo is right, of course - it’s really good. The meat in tandem with the tomatoes is tender and juicy, the spices hot on the back of his tongue, yet under Lalo's expectant gaze, Nacho still swallows all too quickly.

"It's good", he says curtly.

Lalo laughs and shakes his head at him, always remarkably, frustratingly unaffected. He puts the beer bottle to his lips, and even though he’s changed into a clean shirt, Nacho notices there's still a a little bit of blood on his throat, just above his collar bone.   
  


***   
  


"One, two, three easy steps, and dinner is ready”, a gratingly chipper voice announces, followed by the loud chopping sound of a blender.

No one is really paying attention to whatever channel has been on for the last half an hour. The girls have huddled together, one on the couch beside Nacho and the other on the floor in front of her, busying herself with heating up the glass pipe in her hands.

Nacho watches the flame of the torch lighter flicker beneath the glass, licking at it but never really touching it. There's something in the little white hot center that draws his gaze, so he stares while the man on TV keeps babbling on, his head full of nothing but white, numbing static, stretching endlessly until it all blurs together.

His fingers are loosely wrapped around a beer bottle - the second, or third this evening, he hasn’t kept track - and Jo takes her first hit, sucking the vapor in greedily. She reclines as she holds her breath and lets her head rest against Nacho's thigh.

Amber's arm is wrapped around his neck and her voice close to his ear when she asks: "You wanna smoke with us?" 

Nacho lifts his gaze up to her face, and he must have nodded, because Jo is already climbing on the couch to sit on his other side. Amber’s hand is on the back of his neck, gentle yet urging. Nacho lets her guide him, and carefully puts his mouth to the rim of the glass pipe that Jo is holding up for him. Without another thought, he breathes in. 

As Nacho exhales, he watches the vapor curl into itself before his eyes. Before he can even so much as regret his decision, the first spike of the high rushes through him like a torrent and yanks him back into the here and now, just as Amber pulls him into a kiss. Suddenly, Nacho is no longer drifting but alert, awake, and he's keenly aware of his fingers tightening around the slipping beer bottle and his heart thumping faster in his chest. Amber’s mouth is hot as she presses against him, and the flood of sensations feels good, so good he moans into the kiss.

Invested in keeping this momentum going, Nacho eventually pulls away to take another hit and let the rush wash over him, his senses sharp and his nerves alight. The two warm bodies next to him feel pleasant, exciting in a way they weren't before, yet he waits and savors the feeling. After he inhales for a third time, Jo puts a finger on his mouth. “Hold it in, babe”, she says, excitement dancing in her eyes.

With a sigh, he lets the air out when his lungs start burning and reclines against the backrest, allowing Jo to crawl on top of him and smother him with sloppy, eager kisses. There’s a soft clinking noise when Amber puts the glass pipe on the table, and she’s talking next to him now, going on and on about her cracked nail polish. Nacho pulls her into another kiss to shut her up, and immediately her fingers dig into the sides of his cheeks as if she doesn’t want to ever let him go. They are both all over him now, one on each side, kissing him breathless and tugging at his clothes, all warm hands and hot mouths and wet tongues. 

One of them starts nibbling at his neck, softly biting and licking, while the other drags her teeth over his bottom lip, and Nacho thinks that if he should pass out right here on the couch, they might just eat him up, like cats who feast on their owner once he has passed away and doesn’t keep them fed anymore.

He's not sure why this makes him think of Lalo, of his teeth flashing in a wide, wicked smile, but Nacho groans as teeth tug at the skin right below his ear lobe.

The girls help him out of his sweater, and he sinks back into the couch, Amber's hands running over his stomach, his hips, his thighs. A hot rush of arousal flows through him as he starts to uselessly palm himself through his jeans, the thought of Lalo sticking to his mind, right to that restless space in the back of his head he’s been occupying for days now. But now Nacho doesn’t think about intentions, about plans and sabotage, but of how Lalo watched him swallow as they ate together, his eyes burning into Nacho’s skin, his tongue darting out to savor the taste.

His overactive imagination conjures these images all on its own, and Nacho curses himself. He should have known better than to smoke what the girls offer him - they tend to mix their meth with whatever they get their fingers on. 

But right now, in his state of arousal, it's getting harder and harder to mind the vividness of his thoughts. It's Lalo's fault, really, with his shameless flirting that Nacho has not given any serious thought before but now reads to him as nothing but open interest. Barely concealed desire, even. Nacho spreads his legs for Amber who slides between them to open his pants while Jo's mouth is still on his, sucking at his lips. His mind is somewhere entirely else, his thoughts racing, and he's thinking of Lalo's mouth on his thighs, his teeth leaving red crescent marks, and then, warm and hot and sudden, of Lalo swallowing him whole like he wants to devour him.

Nacho moans softly into the kiss as their hands caress his thighs, his shoulders, his chest, and he thinks of that unnervingly cocksure smile, teasing him and taunting him.

_Learn how to indulge, Nachito._

And Nacho wishes he could do that, to just for a moment, just for one second, to not give a shit and give in. Fingers drag over Nacho's skin, and Nacho imagines that Lalo's touch must be sure and demanding, his fingers splayed over his hips before they dig into his flesh, and his warm, bloody hands leaving red streaks on his skin. Nacho's heart races uncomfortably hard against his sternum. The nails dragging over his ribs and up his chest are drawing no blood, but somehow, he still feels the deceptive warmth of it seeping over his stomach.

Suddenly, he feels crowded.

The girl next to him - he doesn't know which - snuggles closer, her hand drawing lazy circles on the inside of his thigh. "Aw baby, you want me to help you get off?"

Without waiting for an answer, her fingers slip under the waistband of his trunks, and there’s an uneasy feeling that tightens Nacho's chest. It’s like having those dark eyes on him again, probing, just waiting for him to screw up as he opens his mouth and lets the other girl kiss him, her tongue lapping at his lips. He's keenly aware of how exposed he is, with nothing to protect him but his flimsy, barely stitched together exterior that is so sensitive to their touch, and something swells in his chest like it's going to burst.

There's no doubt in his mind that beneath Lalo's insistent, searching fingers, his wounds would split open, spilling dark blood with each quivering breath, all but inviting Lalo to dig into the wet and vulnerable flesh, pushing and probing, and pull out all his wretched secrets.

 _He knows_ , the thought creeps up on Nacho with dreadful certainty, _Salamanca knows_ , that's why he lures you in like that, all foreboding smiles and idle talk, hungry lips and teeth, just waiting for Nacho to turn his back, to scrape against the nape of his neck, to pry him open and lay him bare.

And Nacho let his guard down, too certain he has Lalo figured out, that he has wrapped him around his finger, and now Lalo is in his head, right under his skin.

Nacho’s breathing is labored now, his chest heaving, and his palms are clammy with cold sweat. _He’s seen right through you, and you let him._

The thought of his father hits him out of nowhere, lying on the old carpet of his living room, a bullet in his head. 

Not even realizing Amber's hand is still shoved down his trunks and stroking him with lazy, slow movements, he pushes her off and gets to his feet. He should call, how else can he know, how else can he be certain. Without thinking, Nacho grabs the remote to turn off the sound of the TV. But he can’t, he can’t, he’s too scared no one might pick up, paralyzed by the thought of his father's body, splayed out and limbs twisted, his empty gaze aimed at him -- betrayed, disappointed. Accusing, as if his son was the one to hold a gun to his head and pull the trigger.

Nacho doesn’t pick up the phone like a coward and instead paces through the room, his thoughts racing. What if the store is burning up in flames this very second, the fire eating through the stashes of fabrics, bright and consuming, so hot that he can sense it, and Nacho’s heart is beating so hard it hurts, thumping against his ribs like it’s trying to burst out of his chest. 

"Babe?"

There’s a noise like the crackle of flames in the back of his head, quiet, steady and unstoppable, slowly eating through his thoughts. The remote is still in his trembling hands, and he's cracking and twisting it, keeps cracking and twisting, until its electronics spill out and splinters of plastic fall to the floor. 

“Babe”, Amber puts a hand on his shoulder and finally stops Nacho in his tracks. “You’re freaking out.” 

He closes his eyes, trying to catch his breath, but his lungs seem too full and his head is swimming. 

“It’s alright”, Jo says softly, as if she’s calming a trapped animal, “it’s alright.” 

Hands rub in soothing circles over his back, and he tries to focus on the pattern. Defeated, he drops the remote control to his feet and lets himself be escorted back to the couch.

“My father”, he croaks weakly as they gently push him against the backrest. His own voice sounds foreign to his ears.

“Nothing’s wrong, babe.” Neither of them seem to be listening, but keep shushing him until his chest stops being so awfully tight and Nacho draws a trembling breath. He shivers under their warm touch.

“Want another hit?”, Jo’s smiling face appears in front of him, “It’ll make you feel better.” 

Nacho shakes his head. He’s had enough for tonight.

For hours, he lies on the couch, his head on the armrest and his pulse loud in his ears, kept awake by the _tack-tack-tack_ of Jo’s scissors hitting something metallic. The noise resonates in his skull like an impending headache, and it’s the rhythm of fists connecting with a jawline until skin ruptures, of the faint, distinct cracking and snapping of bones beneath his heels.

When Nacho comes to, eyelids fluttering as he struggles to open them just a little, it’s bright daylight. For a second, he squints up into the light, expecting the unrelenting intensity of the sun high up in the desert sky, and his hand wanders to his side, searching for numbing pain and warm blood. It takes a moment for him to realize he’s in his house, lying on the floor beside the couch and staring at the white freshly painted ceiling. He must have fallen down in his sleep, though it feels like he hasn’t slept at all. 

With a sigh, Nacho lets his head fall back onto the floor. His mouth is dried out, his tongue sticks to his teeth and his skin feels glued to the smooth surface beneath him, and something reeks of vomit. 

As he slowly sits up, his back aches and his joints crack. There's dried blood on his hands, he notices, scab covering the small cuts on his palms. His eyes drift to the remnants of the remote control scattered on the floor. 

The girls are curled up on the other couch, their limbs entangled, and both of them drooling on the leather.

Nacho stumbles over the plastic pieces and takeout boxes littering the floor, a splitting headache pulsing behind his forehead. In the small corridor following the window wall, Nacho has to lean against the glass to take a few deep breaths. There’s a feeling of unrealness he can’t shake, of being just one step out of sync with his surroundings - but what’s worse is the crushing weight settling on his chest. 

That’s why he doesn’t do meth these days. So fucking stupid, how could he forget the crash that comes after the initial high. As if he doesn’t have enough to struggle with.

Something is still scratching at the back of his head, licking at his skull like flames, an echo of the panic that has been thrumming under his skin last night. Disjointed thoughts come back to him, and for a terrible second, he is not sure whether Lalo has been here last night. But he couldn't have been, Nacho is certain he would have never done drugs with Lalo around, there’s no way he would have been that stupid. Yet his restless, paranoid brain is not easily convinced. 

Nacho wills his hand to be steady when he reaches for the knob of the bathroom door, and it’s ridiculous that what he anticipates is to hear careless, cheerful singing and the sound of water splashing. When he opens the door, he expects it so much, he’s almost convinced that’s what he’ll see: Lalo reclining in the bathtub, singing and scrubbing his arms, the water red with washed off, diluted blood - whose is anybody’s guess - and Lalo smiling at him, invitingly. As the light flickers on, it takes a moment to sink in that room is, of course, empty. 

Nacho breathes something close to a laugh. Then, without warning, an overwhelming wave of sickness overcomes him, and he stumbles to the toilet just in time to fall to his knees and bend over, hands clinging to the rim of the toilet bowl, and heaves. 

Dizzy but still wide awake, he rests his forehead on the cold porcelain, clutching his hand to his stomach over the knotted scar tissue. A reminder of what matters, of why he keeps hanging on. Drawing a deep, shaky breath, Nacho tries to focus on the scarred skin beneath his fingers to ground himself. But the thought of knowing, cold and calculating eyes makes him grit his teeth and a suffocating feeling of doom creeps up on him.

When Nacho presses his eyes shut, he sees himself lying on the bathroom floor, a clear plastic bag over his head that has been zip-tied tightly around his throat, his mouth sticking to the plastic film as he struggles to draw his last breath and his hands that must have been desperately clawing at his throat now slack on the tiles next to his head. 

The day Nacho almost died in the desert, after hours of waiting and struggling to stay awake, after losing so much blood that fatigue came over him, Nacho felt a drained, exhausted kind of acceptance. To his addled, restless brain, it seems now like something close to actual relief. Nacho’s throat closes up, and he feels like something’s going to give.

His forehead pressed against the cool porcelain, he focuses on the image of Lalo sitting in the bathtub again, of him reclining with his legs spread and his head rolled to the side, his arms dangling over the rim and drops of water dripping from his fingertips onto the tiles. Lalo's neck is slit open and his torso is covered in blood, a slow, steady stream that pools in the bathtub and flows around his feet to trickle down the drain. There’s something peaceful about this sight, about the shadow of a smile in the corners of his mouth, gently mocking him. 

Nacho keeps his eyes closed, his jaw set tightly, and takes a slow, measured breath through his nose. There’s no relief, just a choked up feeling and something heavy and knotted inside his chest that won’t unclench. 

Nacho draws another shaky breath. 

He survived the desert. He’ll survive this. 

His fingers tighten their grip on his side, digging into his skin. He can’t allow himself to slip up like this, he can’t allow himself to let go, not yet, not now. 

Then, without warning, there’s a hand on the back of his head, carefully caressing him, but it startles him like a gunshot. His head whips around, but it’s only Jo, petting him like he’s a scared animal. "Babe, come over, let’s watch some TV.”

Nacho nods, slowly, and pushes himself up to his feet to wash his hands and face, and to get the lingering taste of acid out of his mouth. The cool water feels soothing, but it also makes him realize how thirsty he is.

“What happened to your hand?”, Jo asks as she takes him by the wrist, but she doesn’t sound particularly upset, only mildly surprised. 

As Nacho follows her out of the bathroom, there's still this feeling of dread ghosting over the back of his neck. He keeps his eyes down, very careful not to cast another glance at the tub.  
  


***

“Here you go. It's my special hangover breakfast.”

With a flourish, Lalo puts the plate down in front of Nacho. His voice is gratingly cheerful, but Nacho supposes he should be grateful that Lalo took it remarkably well that he had to ring the doorbell for a good minute this morning when he came to pick Nacho up before one of the girls finally answered it. And Nacho has to admit the food looks delicious. Especially considering that he hasn’t eaten since their dinner together yesterday. Still, he’s sure the first bite will make him feel sick. 

The antsy energy hasn’t entirely left his body, and his fingers are thrumming a nervous rhythm on the table that doesn't match the corny music that fills the El Michoacáno before he catches himself. He doesn't want Lalo to ask questions about the exact nature of his supposed hangover, even though he’s sure Lalo knows well enough.

“I'm not hungry”, Nacho says lamely. His insides feel like a tightly twisted knot.

The intent gaze of Lalo’s eyes is on him and Nacho knows he must look like shit. Thankfully, that makes Lalo give in. He shrugs. “Your loss”, he says, and bites into his taco. 

It’s filled generously with tender shredded beef, and Nacho can’t help but stare. He’s so hungry it feels like there’s a hole in his stomach, even though he’s too restless to muster up any appetite. With slight envy, he watches the ease with which Lalo indulges in this simple pleasure. Lalo’s dark eyes lock with Nacho’s, and Nacho swallows thickly. 

The image of Lalo’s throat slit wide open comes back to him, his blood dripping on the floor while he persists, still eating, still unbothered and unaffected, like he has no care in the world. Oblivious, Nacho dares not to hope. He blinks and lowers his gaze, looking at his own untouched plate instead. His stomach tightens.

“I wonder”, Lalo says, still chewing, and his tone is almost innocuous, “what’s going on in your head right now, Ignacio?”

With the back of his hand, he wipes a bit of red sauce off the corner of his mouth before he takes another bite, teeth sinking in the meat filling of the tortilla. Like an unbidden memory, Nacho thinks of Lalo’s teeth scraping over the soft skin at the curve of his neck instead, tearing into the taut flesh until they draw blood, rupturing and taking him apart, his tensed muscles and tightly coiled insides, until he finally, finally--

Nacho’s fingers dig into the palm of his hand, but he shakes his head with a weak smile, and lies, “Nothing. Just a headache.”

**Author's Note:**

> don't do drugs if you are currently majorly fucked and not coping at all, kids
> 
> thanks for reading, i'd love to hear your thoughts! <3
> 
> ps: i'm pandirpus on tumblr if you wanna join me in my descent into lalo and nacho hell


End file.
